Nick Valentines Detective Angency - Case 006
by Spyritfire
Summary: Nick is approached early in his career to solve a locked room murder mystery at the Towers Hotel. The hotel is run by ghouls, guests from before the war, but there is something else happening there with the staff. Can Nick solve how a guest was shot when everyone else was outside of the locked room?


The Nick Valentine Detective Agency:

Case: 006

 ** _The Tower murder._**

As soon as she walked into the office I shoulda seen she was going to be trouble. She was five feet five, but seemed smaller, with chocolate skin and hair pulled tightly back in a ponytail and as black as the night sky; at least the night sky **I** remember from before the bombs. She was nervous and her long fingers played at the simple white shirt she wore over denim jeans that looked to be as old as me. Her face was thin emphasising full lips beneath a fine nose and arched brows that gave her a startled look.

The thing though was her eyes. A deep brown but they held a mixture of emotions. Intelligence, defiance, fear and anxiety; but the one that overwhelmed them all was sadness. This was a young woman who had known inordinate unhappiness in her short life time. It was probably then that I knew that, whatever the case, I would be working for her.

"A _ are you Nick Valentine?" She asked her voice deep and husky with a hint of the prim Bostonian belle stirred in for good measure.

"That's what it says on the sign outside." I said stepping out of the shadows.

She took a sharp intake of breath and for a second I thought she was about to run.

Now I know that I'm not a picture, unless it's one of Picasso's during his more insane moments, so I'm used to a strangers reaction. After all there aren't that many synths in the Commonwealth and I don't look like any synth you'd have likely come across anyhow. Pale skin torn with my mechanics all out there on show; topped by yellow LED's somehow constructed to make me look even more inhuman. You know when they say they about somebody 'must have broken the mould when they made them?' Well the Institute made me right after that person and in that self-same mould.

"I may not look like much Miss but at least I've got my fashion sense." I said tipping my battered fedora and smiling even though Ellie says that that makes my features look worse.

Thankfully she returned with a warm smile of her own and I could see the tension drain out of her.

"I'm sorry. When I spoke with Miss Wright at the front gates she mentioned that you were a synth but I had no idea." She paused for a second to collect herself and then continued raising a hand as if we were landed gentry meeting for the first time at some may ball. "My name is Sonia Towers. I was sent by my _ employer to elicit your services." I took her hand and shook it firmly.

Ellie looked up from whatever she was doing, (I hardly pay her enough as it is so I'm often at a loss to explain the sheer amount of work time she puts into the agency), and asked. "Piper sent you our way?" Piper Wright was the reporter/editor/publisher and proprietor of Diamond City's only newspaper The Publick Occurrences and she only really sent people our way if she thought they were a worthy enough cause; _and_ had the caps to pay.

"Yes. She came right up to me told me that she could see that I was new to Diamond City and asked what I was here for." The look on Sonia Tower's face told me that she could not quite believe that anyone could be quite so forward. Pushy is Pipers middle name, or it damn well should be.

"Please take a seat." I said as cordially as possible and pulled a chair from what Ellie laughingly calls 'my desk' and spun it around to sit arms resting on the back, chin resting on my arms. "Pipers a quick one. She probably saw you looking around trying to sort out the layout of the place above the racket of the market. Plus you're a little more well-nourished than our usual residents." I wasn't sure but I think she blushed; brushing those long tapering fingers against her cheek as if to cool herself down.

"I apologise. It's just that this is so. . . . new to me. I've never left the Towers in my life and now here I am. It's just so overwhelming." Her deep voice was full of emotion and I could see that really she was just an innocent. Something about her just damn well dug into me and I felt Ellie shift uncomfortably besides me; she could feel it too and I figured she would have plenty to say to me when little miss Towers was gone.

To her credit Ellie leant forward and placed a hand over Sonia Towers' and said softly. "Tell us why you're here Sonia."

The girl pulled herself together and firmed her shoulders. "My _ employer needs your help Mr Valentine. There has been a murder."

Murder was my bread an' butter back when I was a cop in ole' Chicago. Course then I was human an' had a badge a gun a girlfriend an' everything. Now I was just a machine an' the world was two hundred years older and I was just a crazy janitor tryin' t'make a livin' in the Commonwealth. So far my cases, all five of 'em, had been runaways. Y'save one an' then everyone thinks you can find 'em all.

O'course the first one I found happened t'be the Mayors own daughter so I suppose I brought it on myself. And no one really asked me to set up the Valentine Detective Agency; I was just goin' screwy mopping floors an' havin' all these thoughts from Nicks past as a cop. Thought a bit of practical therapy would help. When it finally does y'll be the first ta know.

Anyway the girl said murder an' the hackles at the back of my neck rose, or would've if I HAD any! This seemed like a gift from the gods; only trouble was I don't believe in the gods anymore and mamma Valentine raised her boy t'be suspicious o' gifts.

I said. "Kid people are getting' murdered every day out there in the big brown world. What makes your little event so special?"

Those big brown eyes flicked from me to Ellie an' back again. They were almost full o' tears and sorrow and I felt like a heel for askin' her to explain more. I hadda take the job even if it was no more than some old guy eaten by mole rats; but I also couldn't seem like an easy mark; y'know someone who falls for dames waaay to easy an' always takes their case.

"I. . . . I don't know. Mr Speller was in his room as usual and then he was shot. When Tina finally managed to open the door he was dead. We all saw it."

"So this Speller was in his locked room?" I asked with a frisson of excitement.

"Y –Yes."

"Windows. Were they locked or open?"

"The guest's rooms are on the forty seventh floor; no one could enter or leave by the windows."

I almost jumped out of my chair and swore out loud, something that Ellie is tryin' to get me to stop – something about been a family business. Anyhow this was an official 'locked room mystery' an' it was mine. Calmly I said. "Well I have a few other cases at present but we can drop the Mysterious Stranger case and the Cats one until I get back." I looked at Ellie who nodded in agreement and grabbed a few stray sheets of paper and rustled them for effect. "I charge fifty caps a day plus expenses." I added looking at the girl.

Sonia Towers smiled sweetly and picked up her bag, rustling within its borders almost as much as Ellie was. She produced two slips of paper and handed them to me saying. "This is a return ticket to The Towers at Winchester and directions there. When you arrive Tina will show you up to the hotel." She began to rise and I asked.

"Where are you staying in Diamond City? Not a lot of choices, and most of 'em are dire but I'm sure Ellie can find you a place to stay."

Sonia's smiled faded a little and a haunted look flickered across her eyes. "I have to return immediately. Mrs Weston won't be able to run the hotel without me and she didn't authorise any extra spending."

"It's half a day's travel up to Winchester. You won't get back until late tonight an' it's not safe travelling in the dark in th' wasteland."

"I have to get back; Mrs Weston's orders." She stopped and said. "I'll be fine honestly; and I'll see you tomorrow." As the door closed behind her I recognised a heavy scent in the air that I had not noticed before; a scent of death and decay.

I spent the rest of the day wrestling up information on The Towers. Piper had a wad of documents that she had 'collected' over the years; bits and pieces from any travellers that came through Diamond City. The Towers had been a five star back before the bombs and, from what Piper knew, it had remained so for the past two hundred years. Weston was the family that kept the hotel back in 2077, an' it's no real stretch o' the imagination to see that it could well remain within the same family for all these years. Stranger things happen out here in the commonwealth and a family owned business wasn't the half of it.

I let Geneva, McDonough's secretary, know that I was out of the city for a few days; just in case they needed a quick clean up somewhere. Henry Roberts, the old Mayor, had given me the house in Diamond City from which I ran the agency but McDonough was Mayor nowadays and he was running on a pro-human, anti-ghoul campaign and was frankly antagonistic towards Piper at best. Me an' him didn't quite see eye to eye an' I wasn't about to let him ban me from the city like he was threatening Piper with.

I was ready outside the city gates at six. The sky was purple and steel with flashes of radiation echoing around; another beautiful day in the wastelands. Interstate 90 runs right alongside the old stadium and although much of it was dilapidated, with great swathes of highway resting on the ground, it was still the best means of travelling any great distance. It hooked up with Interstate 93 just east near the water front and I93 would take me north to Winchester.

I was packing a pipe gun and an old .357 Magnum. I hardly had any ammo for the magnum but still I felt more like a cop carrying it around. It wouldn't drop a Super-mutant but it could certainly cripple one an' that was good enough for me. The pipe gun took .38 ammo and _that_ was plentiful. The 'Whitehound' service arrived dead on time; eight mutant huskies from the Alaskan north pulling a clapped out RV. Each dog was bigger than me at the shoulder and muscular. It's just a good job that they're friendly; the number of rabid dogs roamin' around seems to grow year on year and if these puppies ever got it into their heads to bite instead of pullin' we'd all be shittin'.

A few stragglers, drifters enticed by the dream that is Diamond City, stepped off the RV and wandered over to the guards expectin' an easy way into the place. I pitted 'em. Instead I hustled on board found an empty seat and sat down, pulling the brim of my fedora as low as it could get. Most of the folk in Diamond City accept me for what I am but travelling around you never know what sort of idiot you're likely to meet.

Fortunately I was the only pick-up and the only passenger so we headed first east and then north along I93. I considered the rumours that California had actual cars running on gas and fusion batteries. Course they had wide open desert not like this tortuous remains of a nightmare; whole city blocks crumbling into the streets an' rubble piled up wherever you looked. They probably also had ice fresh Nuka-cola an' clean sheets every night t' sleep on. Way I see it grass is always greener on th' other side of th' continent.

The RV skirted around the Middlesex Fells, too many darn Mirelurks for comfort, but that helped me as the dogs brought us close to Winchester. The houses were timber and pretty much intact and at its centre poking skywards was a sliver of glass and steel. The Tower Hotel. Winchesters biggest and finest (and only) hotel' or so the brochure said back in 2075.

I alighted on Mystic Valley Parkway and watched my only connection with civilisation pull away. Well I could just wait an' catch the next ride back to downtown Boston. Course there wasn't really any doubt; a locked room murder. How could I resist.

Most of the houses looked empty, frames enveloping darkness, roofs open to the elements. A wind blew through holding the promise of rain later but these buildings looked like they could never get wet again. There was a dryness inherent in the wood, burnt in by radiation and fallout centuries ago that seemed to make them impervious to change. War and destruction; somethings NEVER change.

As I neared the Towers I could make out a figure scratching around the base but carefully casting their gaze around for any wandering hobo. From their point of view I was just another tattered human being scrapping a living off the shallow land. I tried to approach as nonchalantly as possible. ' _Look at me_ ' I made my body scream. ' _I am SO harmless._ _ **You**_ _don't have to worry about me!_ '

The figure looked to be eight feet high and appeared to be VERY worried about me. He stepped forward and for the first time I noticed a FatBoy pointing my way. He was wearing rags and his voice drifted across to me as I stopped and pondered my existence; my reason for being there; and any accessible defensive points. In that order.

"Stuupid human. What you come here for?" The giant man said his voice harsh and rasping. "Puny human should die."

A super-mutant. How unlucky can a guy get? The way he had been scouting around the base of the Tower I had thought he was a guard; just not the kind who kill you first and the eat you later. Of course I would die knowing that this guy's meal would be spoiled by an assortment of transistors and steel joints; but somehow knowing that did not, at that moment, bring me great comfort; funny how life is.

"You are a very stupid human; do you know that? Very stupid to come along here and. . . ."

The voice changed a little, as if been rough and ready was as hard for it to speak as it was on my sea-shell ears. He coughed and began to rant again about me being a puny human. Somehow he looked nervous and the FatBoy wavered around. With luck when it went off I could dodge the missile. What to do next was the $64,000 question. Run at him or run away from him? His voice suddenly went up two octaves. The mutants rags looked very 'strategically' placed.

I took a chance and stepped forward. The super-mutant stopped ranting and stared back at me. I stepped forward again. The mutant stepped back, tripped on the curb and fell on her ass. From the angle I was I could tell _he_ was definitely a _she_! A very **un** lady-like swearword was expelled but in such a deep and _British_ voice that I stared incongruously at her. She looked up at me and smiled wanly.

Her eyes were deep blue, the colour of an ocean at noon, and, unlike her male compatriots, she had hair, long and thick curling at her waist the colour of midnight. Her skin was thick and that shade of yellow/green that suggested an upheave from one whiskey too many after a late night Mexican. She was similar to the other super mutants I had seen, from a great distance, but looked smoother somehow as if the underlying frame were curvier or softer.

She struggled back up seemingly seeing me clearly for the first time. "I do apologise. Usually most people stay away and that is how Mrs Weston likes it." She held out a hand. Larger than my entire face. "I'm Tina and you must be Mr Valentine. Sonia informed me of your impending visit. Rum business upstairs; what!" We shook hands and the diodes in my palms registered a roughness inherent deep within her skin and the capacity in her bones to crush my hand completely.

She returned my hand, undamaged, before I plucked up courage to ask. "I ain't never seen a female super mutant before. They hide your kind away or sumthing?"

She laughed; a charming sound that sent a shiver down my spine if only because the mouth it came from looked so god damn ugly. "No. Super mutants are bred in machines and our." She glanced down at her own feminine charms and corrected herself. "Their sexual organs are 'lost' in the transition."

"Ouch! I gotta admit that hurts even a guy like myself."

"The majority of mutants look male only because of their bulk and size; with the addition of their general stupidity most people assume they have to be male." She smiled sweetly at me.

"Double ouch!"

"Very rarely the chromosomes get a decent mix up and something like me pops out. Not as tall but smarter and thus less controllable. We're considered runts and generally killed. I managed to kill the technicians before they could do likewise to myself."

"And the accent?"

"Oh the vault had a supply of British documentaries." Her voice changed; a husky male voice almost whispered. " _And now we see the wildebeest swarming across the Mohave Desert in search of ammunition and a place to set up a trap for the unsuspecting raiders._ Impressive eh?"

"Definitely. If they ever bring back Vids you'd be a dead cert."

She inclined her head and squinted at me probably trying to decide if I meant it as a compliment or sarcastically. "With my looks." She said smiling broadly. "How could I fail?"

"You got me there sister."

Tina led me into the lobby of the Tower. It was filled with the detritus of two centuries plus a couple of super mutant sacs all bloody and usually filled with any number of things, some useful. Seeing my gaze Tina said. "I found some _Hoppity Hops_ and with a little embellishment viola!" She taped one which gave off a hollow rubbery sound. "Appearances are important." She stopped at the bank of elevators. All but one was either boarded over or open to the elements. Rebar and two by four jutted out of dark shafts like rotten teeth. "This one only goes up to the hotel. The other floors were rented office space, mostly empty from what I can gather. Nothing up there now between here and the guests but empty space." She began to return to her spot outside calling back over her shoulder. "See you later Nick."

The elevator rattled ominously upwards, spluttering and wheezing with alarming regularity. I waited patiently as the floor indicator was broken. I could be three or thirty floors up; who knows? It always seems awful risky hiding out on the top floor of a skyscraper. Only quick escape is a jump out of a window. Finally the car gasped to a stop an' the doors shuddered open with a creak. Sonia stood there waiting along with a female ghoul; that at least explained the scent of death that hung over the young girl.

Now for those of you not in the know ghouls are humans who have received so much irradiation back when the bombs fell like snowflakes that they're somehow immortal. Sure they look like a hundred year old piece of meat left out in the sun way too long and smell even worse but they can walk an' talk just like you an' me. 'Cept that ghouls can come in two flavours; your basic sentient walkin' and talkin' type and the rabid 'zombiefied' ' _I'm goin' t'eat you_ ' type.

Mrs Weston, (I ain't a detective for nuthin' you understand?), was thankfully the former type, dressed in a blue skirt and jacket with a whiter then white blouse. Her shoes were sensible and matched the blue of her skirt and her hair was a pale yellow and set in a bouffe. Her ensemble was completed by a pearl necklace and matching earrings. An air of impatience hung over her like the smell of nuclear fission over Chernobyl.

Sonia smiled warmly and said. "Mr Valentine. You have arrived much quicker than we thought you would. This is my Mistress; Mrs Weston."

Something in the way she spoke made me feel uncomfortable but I figured that I should concentrate on the murder first.

"Mr Valentine." Mrs Weston's voice was high and edgy; a brittle little sound that matched the woman's demeanour. "It is most regretful that we have had to call someone in. but of course it cannot be helped; I suppose."

"I have the gist of what happened but please fill me in with the details while you take me to the crime scene."

"Come this way." Although the older ghoul spoke it was Sonia who moved, indicating I should follow her. "Mr Speller was in his room as always, he never leaves. . . sorry, he never left his room during the day. His door was shut, locked we found out later, and there were raised voices. I and the other guests came running only when we heard a shot. His door was locked, from inside, and when we finally managed to break open the door; he was of course dead; murdered."

"There was no weapon." Sonia added. "I mean in the room. There was no gun."

"How did you manage to open the door?" I asked.

"The super mutant came up. Her. . . strength is useful. She managed to wrench the door off its hinges eventually." Mrs Weston answered.

We came to said door, hardwood but with reinforced metal inlays and a palm reader for the lock. Seven thick bolts, each the width of my thumb, jutted out of the door. I imagined a complex of wires and transistors hidden inside the door releasing the bolts only on Spellers palm was placed upon the plate. If the door was locked from the inside as they said it would be impossible to hack your way in; even for me.

Inside the room was much bigger than I imagined, a wall of windows some ten yards long ran along one side opposite the entrance and doors stood half open at either side. The room itself was full of high quality Edwardian kitsch; ornate legs and embossed gold leaf with heavily patterned clothe stretched over almost every surface it was possible to sit on. Some days I'm just thankful that I'm a poor synth with no sense of taste.

Speller's body was still there and although a ghouls body is already a mess of decay and thus it is reasonable to presume that no new fragrancies are going to arise I was still surprised. He lay dressed in what appeared to be a silk dressing gown; bare legs, brown and leathery poking out and a large darkened stain that had once been his blood spread outwards from a small hole, slightly blackened. Sonia had told me as much yesterday so that wasn't the most surprising thing; no what I found most disturbing was the plain knife embedded in his right hand. It pinned him to the rather over-flowery carpet like a grotesque wingless butterfly as if some giant lepidopterist had started a more imaginative collection of 'death poses'.

"We thought that perhaps you would need to view the scene. The staff have allowed no one in since the unfortunate incident." Mrs Weston made it sound like a jam jar had smashed on the floor and they were regretting the invasion of ants.

I walked over to the windows.

"Hell of a view."

"Yes. Well I must be off. The hotel will not run itself." Weston left Sonia and me standing in the room with a dead body.

"The door to the right is the restroom and the door to the left leads into Mr Speller's bedroom." Sonia Towers said. There was a catch in her voice that even I could barely register.

"Tell me what happened Sonia."

"As Mrs Weston has said; Mr Spellers door was locked, from the inside. (Mrs Weston has a swipe card to access all the suites in the event of a guest locking themselves out; it can only be stopped if the resident is still inside the room.) There were raised voices."

"Whose voices? Did you recognise them?" I asked.

"The doors are very thick and the soundproofing well maintained. We could barely hear much more than a mumble." She looked downcast. "And then there was a shot. We all recognised the sound. Even here on the forty seventh floor the sound of gunfire is heard from the wasteland below. Mrs Weston, Miss Smith, Mr Smith, Mr Le Petite, Edward, Toni and the other staff were already there when I arrived. We called Toni from downstairs and she. . . took a while to break in. Mr Speller was as he is now. Britt has some experience with wounds and such and he verified that Mr Speller was. . ." Sonia gave a small sob and turned away from the body that dominated the room so silently.

I resisted the urge to put an arm around the girl and comfort her. When your arm is a scarred plastic coated metal boned thing that smells of engine oil comfort is usually the last thing it inspires.

"An' the guests haven't left the hotel since?" I asked.

"The guests haven't left the hotel since the war." Sonia replied. So they were all ghouls apart from the staff.

I told her that I had no further questions and ushered her out of the room. I then searched the room thoroughly. There are a few things I'd rather do in private an' searchin' a dead man's room is one of 'em. People like to help but it takes a special type of curiosity to actually find something that another person has hidden. Someone will tell you they've searched a guy's sock draw and they've missed a .45 taped to the underside. I was also aware that the killer had had plenty of time to sneak a look around. In general people will hide stuff in their drawers or at the back of a closet; but in general people don't get killed.

So by definition someone who gets murdered has more reason to hide things. I tried the obvious places firstly, and then moved on to the AC unit and a number of vents. I even checked the ornate chandelier; you never know. As it was I came up with squat. Speller had a few suits, brown and frankly out of fashion even before the bombs dropped; a handful of shirts and a pair of good shoes. Shoes are hard to find and, with a little adjustment they would probably fit me so I slipped them into my inventory. Only odd thing was an empty half closet in his 'living room'.

All that was left was his terminal. I booted it up and then wriggled my fingers in anticipation. Before, when I was a cop out of Chicago working cases down here in Boston I couldn't work a hack to save my sorry ass. Now though I'm some sort of wizard when I comes to eliciting the nought's and the ones. I sit down and a minute later the screen is full of nice green words giving me access to all of Spellers secrets.

There are a number of folders, all cryptically named by initials. A.C.D.; M.W.; S.; L.L.P. Possibly M.W. is Weston, and when I open the file the screen fills with scanned documents and emails that seem to bear out that theory. So that would mean that L.L.P. was Le Petite and S. Smith. That would then mean that A.C.D. is Miss Smith. Hmmm.

I open a few more files and emails from Speller to the Boston Bugle scrawl down the screen. Can't remember a Speller at the Bugle but I wasn't at The Bureau of Alcohol, Drugs, Tobacco, Firearms and Lasers, BADTFL, long before all hell reigned down across the world. Never really read one particular paper either.

So this Tomas Speller was a reporter an' he was checking up on the guests here; at least those on this floor. Sonia had told me that Miss Smith's room was across the hall and Smith was to my right and past the elevator. Le Petite's suite was opposite Smiths with Mrs Weston reigning over all in a massive suite of rooms at the far end. I left the room and knocked on Miss Smith's doorframe. The door was ajar and singing emanated from within. The lock was identical to the one that had locked Speller into his tomb.

The ghoul who answered was tall and slim with honey blonde hair and the remains of freckles across her open nose. Her skin was dry and taut but a thin powder disguised much of that as did the bright cherry lipstick and eye shadow. Earrings dangled, crystals catching the light delightfully as they swayed to and fro. Her mouth formed a perfect 'O' showing straight white teeth that were obviously as fake as the makeup.

"You must be Valentine." Her voice was rasping and hard pitched, scraping down into my inner ear and almost taking away much of the plastic skin that lined it. The bonnet and pale red dress with a sea of flowers gave her away even if I hadn't seen her initials in Spellers terminal.

"An' you must be Annie Clarabelle Dawson, teen princess of the drive-ins."

She snorted; a disgustingly filthy sound that brought back memories of a bordello Nick Valentine had raided back in Chicago.

"What is this? A mechanical man remembers me?" She held the door open and I entered her hotel room. "I **used** to be Annie Clarabelle, until I grew up."

I remembered the pre-war scandal. Annie's manager, and part time mother, had doped her up on a cacophony of drugs jus' to keep her lookin' young and bringing the green in. Finally AC just ran down the rabbit hole of addiction an' never came out; least that's what I heard.

"So you ended up here at the Towers Hotel?" I said as way of opening up the conversation seeing as I didn't have that many choices.

She bristled defensively. "I was planning my comeback. It would have been bigger than Mel's seventh return to the screen. I would have played my age at last." She waved a hand vaguely around the room as if this were the set of her movie. If she was going to act her age at least she wasn't dressing her age. The hat and dress was pure Annie Clarabelle Dawson, including the patent leather shoes; bright pink and with a metal buckle that wouldn't have looked out of place on an aircraft carrier.

"An' you've been here since the bombs dropped?" I asked. The room looked similar to Spellers except in shades of pink and the couch was a soft furnishing hell of cushions and throws, all matching the walls. My visual circuits stopped seeing pink just so as to save processing power.

"Yes. Those first few weeks after the bombs dropped were horrible but Matilda, that's Mrs Weston, had enough food in stock for all of us and then as the months dragged on the sights we saw from up here, the wasteland as it threw up mangled living corpses and creatures mutating before our very eyes. Well we thought it safer up here. And then we began to change. We realised we needed less food to survive and our skin became. . . ." She held out an arm with its stiff leathery shroud of skin. "Mrs Weston recruited more staff and it seemed prudent to remain up here safe."

"Not so safe it appears." I said.

Annie rested against the door jam and spoke. "I was in here the whole time. None of us up here leave our rooms that often to be honest. I think the black girl was cleaning that morning and I had my door open. I was rehearsing when I caught sight of that little brat of a child run from Spellers room. The girl. He came to his door, he was talking with someone. I heard him say ' _Oh no. you're not leaving!_ ' and he slammed the door shut. These rooms are pretty soundproof but I heard voices raised and then just as I was finishing my scene there was a loud gunshot. I ran out and Mr Smith met me at the door, which of course was locked. The staff came along afterwards. You have no doubt heard the rest."

I nodded and she continued.

"My door was open the whole time and this spot here is perfect to rehearse; the light is liquid." She stepped across from the door near the windows where I might agree that the light was adequate but not necessarily _liquid_. Annie Clarabelle ignored my blank look and continued. "I would have seen **anyone** leave Spellers room but I swear no one came out."

I crossed over to the windows. Like those in the dead man's room they were hermetically sealed and had nothing more than a thin stone ledge. Windows that didn't open and a door locked tight from within; how the hell did this killer get out?

"And what exactly did Speller have on you?" I asked suddenly. As she hesitated I added. "I've broken the encryption on his terminal." I didn't also add ' _But I can't be bothered to spend the next hour reading everything he wrote about the guests._ '

"I _ I occasionally use, used, _Daytripper_ to enhance my performance. And a little _Jet_ sometimes. The studios don't want that even nowadays. I tried for The Silver Shroud once you know."

"A _little_ drug use doesn't go far nowadays in the commonwealth." I said and she looked away nervously.

"Okay. Okay; it may be a. . . . . habit of mine; alright?" She shivered and I finally saw the watery veil of addiction. She added. "But I was clean when Speller was killed; what I saw was the truth."

I expressed my gratitude and left Miss _Smith_ to go visit _Mr_ Smith. His door was shut tight and I wrapped a metal knuckle along the metal inlay. Same lock I noticed; I wondered if Mrs Weston managed to find a job lot someplace.

Smith opened the door cautiously and peered out into the hallway as if a team of highly armed SWAT operatives had decided to accompany me this fine day. He beckoned me in and once inside I saw a squat ghoul, a little smaller than me and wearing a smart black polo and black trousers. His hair was black but smatterings of white gave it a softer look. His face, besides the lack of nose, was smooth and almost black and when he spoke there was a hint of a French accent or perhaps creole. I couldn't be sure.

"You're Mr Valentine, the detective. It is a pleasure to meet you at last." He held out a hand and shook mine vigorously an unreadable smile on his face. "I have heard of your exploits and it was I who suggested too our charming host we hire you."

If he was hopin' I'd look easier at him just because he'd suggested me he didn't know Nick Valentine. In fact I now automatically disliked him on top of the suggestion of wariness I had felt in his hand when we shook and the soupçon of misgivings at his behaviour. Sometimes you just have to go with your gut; even if said gut is a collection of brass and plastic bearings.

"So I don't have to bring y'up to date. Yippee; that an' a handful of caps will get me a cup of coffee. Jus' tell me what you saw an' heard that morning."

I rested on a brown leather armchair – leather, or at least brown, appeared to be the motif of this particular room – and waited. Mr Smith coughed gently as if clearing his throat and slumped his shoulders forward trying to make himself less intimidating. I was neither intimidated nor impressed and slipped my hand into my overcoat pocket fingering my gun in case. Finally the guy began to talk.

"Well; I was here, in my room as always. I had in fact just returned from my mornings run up on the remains of the roof, a good twenty laps equates to about a mile give or take, and as I came to my door I heard Mr Spellers door slam."

"How'd you know it was Spellers? From your door it could have been either his or Miss Smith's."

He smiled blankly again. "Quite. I did not know if it had been either of their doors; I just heard the bang. As I turned the girl child ran past me upset, not crying you understand, but I could see in her eyes that she was distressed over some issue. My room is somewhat distant from Mr Speller's but, and here I beg to say that I could not swear it in court but if I was pushed to do so I would say there were raised voices coming from his room."

"Spellers? Are you sure? They could have come from Miss Smiths."

"I could not tell the voices apart but I have heard Speller rant often enough to know his muffled growl through these walls. Two hundred years will do that." Suddenly he looked exhausted and drained of life; a thing that resembled something living rather than the object itself. The mask was allowed to slip only for a second before Smith was back in control of his emotions. "Then there was a gunshot and I ran to his room with Le Petite right behind me, he'd come from his room the same time as I; Weston was right behind us. The door was locked from within and Miss Smith stepped out of her room just before I reached his door. She informed me she had seen him shut the door from within and then the staff came from downstairs. I am sure you know the rest."

"Can I check out your rooms?" I asked in a tone which didn't give him much room to decline.

"Of course. I'll go and see how our Miss _Smith_ is doing." Something in the way he said her, admittedly false, name made me think that this Smith knew rather a lot about our Miss.

Once he was gone I searched his room as thoroughly as I had searched Spellers. Something about the guy was off and I couldn't put a metal digit on it. The obvious places took barely a minute to go through, leaving the unobvious ones for my full attention. Even so I found nothing. Closet empty top and bottom; he barely had enough clothes to occupy two hangers.

The underside of all his drawers were clear and the mattress appeared full of nothing more than stuffing and a billion bed bugs. I've never seen the need in cutting open a mattress. If a perp is goin' to leave his stuff anywhere it's going t'have t'be in a place that's accessible. I could just see a fugitive spending time stitching their mattress back together and then spending more time cutting it open just to get at something incriminating.

I sat on Smith's bed and surveyed the room. None of the vents or AC units held a cap. There was so little here that it was almost as if Smith was only visiting instead of been hold up here for over two hundred years. I glanced at the closet again. A jacket and a spare pair of trousers hung forlornly; and yet. . . . there was something about the closet.

I stood and walked over. Solid wood; shelving and aluminium pole with those weird little coat hangers you only get in hotels. I stared for a minute or two trying to see what my mind had registered. Pole, shoe rack, wooden sides and back, shelf, clothes.

I waited.

The shelf. It was thicker than usual. Smith had noting resting on it so I gave the shelf a tug. It lifted easily and I pulled it out and rested it on the bed. I ran my fingers along the edges and felt a latch just as I noticed a slight groove along the edge of the 'shelf'. With a smile I flipped the switch and with a sullen click the 'shelf' separated into two halves with a series of hinges at the back.

Inside, enclosed in grey foam, were the parts of a large sniper rifle. The magazine looked to hold .50ml and I guessed that the ammo was secreted on Smith himself. At least that explained the Mr Smith appellation.

"She is magnificent; don't you think Mr Valentine?" I supressed the urge to jump and give a little yelp of fear; that was one of the benefits of being a machine; but I did wonder _how_ he had managed to sneak up on me.

"This seems like an awfully advanced set up for a civilian, don't you think?"

He smiled coldly and even his eyes seemed hard a glacial. "I never purported to be a civilian Mr Valentine."

"The ammo?" I asked holding out my hand.

"You cannot possible think that I shot Speller? This." He indicated the rifle. "This would have obliterated most of his head if I had used it on him."

He had a point but so did I. I needed him to see that I was in charge of the investigation and that things would be done my way. I kept my hand out until he reluctantly pulled out a box of .50ml hollow points and dropped them on my palm.

"Satisfied?" He asked bitterly.

I studied the bullets. They were specially made with a chrome finish and ceramic tip. "I remembered a couple o'cases from way back; when I first joined BADTFL. "The _Gold n' Chrome Killer_."

Smith smiled with such frostiness that I'm pretty sure the temperature in the room dropped a couple of degrees. "Guilty as charged. But I think that the revised 2025 Statute of Limitations means that after two hundred years I'm still a free man."

He had a point; added to which was the fact that Speller had been killed by a pistol and not a rifle. Smith here may be malodorous but in this case he wasn't the killer. Still I needed to ask. "What were you doing here, before the war started?"

"The President was due to meet the Canadian Prime Minister at Concord for a top secret meeting to discuss joint defence plans. She would have driven along I93. As it was the Chinese invaded first and I never got to. . ." He pointed a finger towards the window and made a 'pow' sound. Delightful; nothing I dislike more than cold-blooded murder. Keeping my temper in check, hard considering I'm basically a well-educated toaster, I asked. "Did Speller know about you?"

"Not that I am aware of; why?"

"It would give you damn good reason to kill him if he did." I left Smith standing in his bedroom staring out at the world below imaging another time when he could've taken down a President.

Le Petite was waiting, his door open.

"I guess I'm next." He said flatly. He was a tall, lanky man who had once been bigger than he was now; his clothes hung desolately on his angular frame. His eyes were the pale blue of a winter's morning and held a suggestion of sadness and discomfort. He wore overalls over a white Tee and faded jeans. His room was in stark contrast to everyone else's; a splash of vivid colours scattered like a second rate Pollock across canvases that were strewn everywhere. On the walls, and windows; resting on and against furniture; piled in spare corners. Some held the impression of vague shapes; figures or faces; a Monroe or a Winehouse. Others appeared to be landscapes; shattered and burnt landscapes from the hell that is the world we know today. Can't say I was much of a fan.

"He slouched into a free chair and spoke, his voice thick with insolence. "I was here, painting as always, my door shut. I heard a shot; THE shot and came out. Smith was just leaving his room and Weston hers. We crossed the corridor to Annie's who was just coming out of her own room and Spellers. His door was shut, locked; and we tried to get in. Couldn't. The rest of the help arrived, as **un** helpful as always, and someone suggested we bring that _thing_ up from downstairs. It finally broke the lock and we found him there; dead." He finally looked up at me a faraway look in his eyes as if he were already planning what to do when I had left. "Is that precise enough for you detective?"

"Actually I'm not sure the BADTFL still exists so **Mr** Valentine will do." I replied as sarcastically as I could. "So you know who Miss Smith is?"

"It was easy enough to figure out, even without two centuries to do so."

"D'ya mind if I search your room." I smiled my best 'metal-teeth' smile. "The correct answers yes."

He nodded and I quickly slipped my nimble fingers through his draws of underwear and socks. His room, despite the avant-garde decoration, was laid out similar to the other three, including the empty half closet in what was generally the living space. I couldn't really think of anything else to speak to the guy about. They all had had time to 'fix' their accounts and although none sounded that rehearsed they all felt a little too smooth.

Despite that, and if what they told me was true, what I could see was still a mystery; a locked room murder with four of the suspects alone in their rooms but visible almost immediately after the sound of the gunshot. No one would've been able to make it back to their room even Miss Smith and anyhow; how was the door locked from the inside?

I thanked Le Petite and started to leave, stopping at the door and turning to ask him. "So what did Speller have on **you**?"

He stared for a minute and I didn't think he was going to answer me when he said. "He found out that I actually like women."

I had to literally process that sentence and finally repeated it back to him asking. "What th' hell does that even mean?"

"Speller found out that I slept exclusively with women; back when I was not this _ thing."

"So?"

"For god's sake man!" He exploded in exasperation. "I'm one of the fathers of the gay-Pollock movement. We set our stall out on an expression of our sexuality and art. Our work comes from our inclinations and predilections; an art that transcends mere talent and wrenches your very being into a force dominated by who you make love too."

He was almost shouting. "I was one of its founders; men looked up to me as a guide, a beacon of hope in a dangerous world. The commies hated gays and our art became a mirror held up to reflect their ugliness and contemptible behaviour."

I looked around at the canvases. I could see a LOT of ugliness; just wasn't sure it ' _reflected the soul of Communism_ '.

"So you started a gay artistic movement but weren't actually gay?" I asked.

"The ignominy of it all. I had merely mentioned the idea one night at a drinking establishment a number of us frequented and the next thing I knew a major movement had coalesced and the whole of Concord was abuzz."

"Concord?"

"It stretched almost to Acton, and Sudbury and Maynard. If word had reached the ears of the Northern-West, West-Northern Board of Boston Suburban Artists and Harlequins. God the disgrace if the NW-WNBSAH had discovered the ruse. But it was the only way I could display my genius; no other gallery would exhibit my culturally relevant canvases."

"And Speller knew?"

"He was a vile man, with vile _ passions. Truly despicable. But I did not, could not murder a man in cold blood."

"Even for the NW-WNBSAH?" I asked failing to keep the sarcasm from my voice. He just stared with a combination of despair and anger.

I met Sonia outside and she smiled timidly. She told me that she was on her way to Mrs Weston's to serve supper. I sometimes wish I hadda pip-boy so that time wouldn't creep on me like that. Weston's suite of rooms was at the far end of the corridor and as she was the last person on this floor I needed to interview I followed Sonia. She rapped the door so softly that at first I thought the old ghoul couldn't have heard her but then a rasping voice echoed from within the room.

"Is that you girl. For god's sake come on in; a woman could starve in the time it takes you lot to get up here."

Sonia gingerly pushed the door opened and I got a sense that this wasn't the first foul mood Weston had had.

"You lousy sl. . . " She saw me and stopped. "Oh. It's you Valentine. Come in; come in. Never mind the girl." She eyed Sonia. "You get my supper immediately." The old ghoul tried a rare smile and failed spectacularly. "The help. Ha! Should be called the _hindrance_. Still what have you learnt so far?"

I was about to speak when Sonia rolled a service cart stacked with cold meats, mutfruit and beans. Suddenly I understood the purpose of the half closets in each room and also the how of the mystery.

"Mr Valentine?"

"I'm sorry. Just a stray thought. I need to ask you some questions about that morning."

"I spoke to you already." She said obviously annoyed, which is how I want my witnesses/suspects. An annoyed perp is one prone to mistakes.

"You were in your room I believe?" I flipped through the blank pages of a small note book. I'm a machine and have a machines ability to recall everything but for some reason I found people trusted me more if I pretended to take notes in a small note book. I guess it looked more professional that way.

"Yes. We all seem to remain in our rooms more and more these days; as if our very presence in each others company has begun to offend our sensibilities. It was close to twelve, I remember thinking that soon one of these people," She indicated Sonia. "Would serve lunch. I heard a shot and came out where I saw Mr Smith and Mr Le Petite both ahead of me. All three of us rushed towards the sound and Miss Smith exited her own room ahead of us. She told us that Mr Speller had locked the door and when we tried it we found the door locked."

She looked at me in exacerbation. "Now could I possibly have some privacy while I eat?"

I left with Sonia and asked her to take me to the staff areas. As we used the stairs I asked her some questions. "I believe you were the maid that morning?"

She nodded in agreement. "Yes; I am the _ maid every day. I cleaned their rooms and took away their breakfast dishes earlier."

"And then?"

"Cleaning the corridors, ensuring that the guests needs are catered for." She looked uncomfortable so I didn't ask the question I wished too but instead asked. "How many staff are allowed up there on the guest floor?"

"A handful at most. Me, Cyl occasionally; a chef if one of the guests wishes some special meal later that day."

"Cyl?"

"Cyril. Another _ cleaner."

"There was a child seen running from Spellers room." I said.

Sonia looked horrified. "Oh no! that's Danni. She's just _ she's not even ten yet. We're teaching her the workings of the hotel. How to serve and clean and even cook. She is so good at all of it really. A true servant." She said proudly.

We reached the lower floor and two things hit me at once; the noise and the heat. People were rushing along narrow aisles between cookers and work benches; carrying dishes, food, scraps, waste. Chopping and slicing; dicing and crushing while all around them the ovens gave off a pernicious heat that sapped your strength. The sheer number of people was astounding. Did the five of them, or four now, really need dozens of staff?

Along one wall a row of mattresses' lay; the odd personal item sitting incongruously alongside. Another wall held a row of industrial sized washing machines which today added to the bedlam. Soap and cooking smells mixed alarmingly and I couldn't decide whether I was hungry or in need of a wash.

"Is it always like this?" I asked in a loud scream.

Sonia smiled and nodded. "It rarely stops. The chef has to rise early to prepare bread and the washers and dryers run most of the night."

"Why don't you leave?"

Sonia held up her arm. A pale almost translucent bracelet clung to her skin. "They can track us anywhere with these. We all have one. Even the children."

"Children? Plural?"

"Eleven; ranging from five months to fifteen." She noticed me glancing around and added. "There's an annex where we try to teach them as much as we can. We have an old battered terminal and some even older holotapes. We take it in turn to nurse the babies."

I looked around at the cramped, noisy, smelly, inhuman conditions and made another of my famous snap decisions. Finally I pointed to the shafts that rose up towards the ceiling. "An' those are the dumb waiters to each of the rooms above?"

A look of alarm crossed her face as she said yes.

"I'll need to speak with Danni." If anything Sonia's face became even more horrified. "Don't worry I'll go easy on the kid. It's just that she was the last person t'see Speller."

Somehow that did not calm Sonia but she was used to takin' orders and crossed over the room to one of the beds. Even before the kid looked up I knew she'd be dark skinned and beautiful like her mother. I leant into Sonia and whispered as best I could. "Your daughter." It wasn't a question.

The child looked dirty like she was a street urchin from some Dickensian paperback with eyes similar to Sonia's but holding less pain. I guess that would be added later as she grew up in this hell-hole of a world.

"Danni. This is the detective I told you about. He wants to speak with you. Is that alright?" The kid looked suddenly anxious but nodded silently.

"Is there a room with less noise?" I asked and Sonia led us to a stairwell at the corner of the kitchen. She waited as we went down a few steps and sat besides each other like we were buddies or something.

I waited for my ears to work again and the asked. "You saw Mr Speller that morning."

"The day he was murdered?" Danni's eyes were wide with that look kids everywhere get when real life intrudes into their lives. I noticed she wore a name badge, some old plastic thing from before the war with the name of the Weston Tower Hotel emblazed upon it and a crest of some sort. The name said Daniel.

"That's an odd badge." I gestured.

The girl shrugged and said. "It was given to me when I was born. You just get given the next one or the one of someone you're replacing."

"Replacing?" **That** didn't sound good.

"Y'know. If someone's died and they bring in someone new. They're given the name. Billy, he's my friend although he's two years and seven months older than me, he says that _my_ name is a boy's name but I can beat him so he doesn't say that anymore. It's not a boy's name is it mister?"

What do you say to a nine year old who's as cute as hell an' lookin' at you with deep brown eyes. I lied of course. "Nah! Danni's a girl's name; he's just windin' you up."

We sat in silence for a little longer.

"So." I finally said. "Mr Speller?"

Danni looked miserable obviously remembering something unpleasant; an' I had an' idea what.

"He was not nice." She almost sobbed.

I waited, holding my breath.

"He was mean but he tried to be friendly. He told me I was special and he wanted to show me a pipboy. He had _ held my hand but I didn't really like it." Her voice trailed off into silence.

"An' your mother knew about this?"

An emphatic nod as Danni bit into her bottom lip. "I was quiet one day and she asked and I said that Mr Speller had said that I was pretty and that he had told me not to tell anyone because I was so pretty and then mom got soooo angry and said ' _not again_ ' and stormed off to see him." She rushed it all out in one sentence.

"That was on the morning he was _ killed?" I asked tentatively.

"No." Danni shook her head in an exaggerated fashion. "That was the day before."

"So what happened that morning?" I looked directly at the girl and spoke as softly as I could manage considering. "You're not I trouble Danni; neither is your mom. I just want to know what happened in his room." I wasn't too sure that I did want to know, but sometimes you have to listen to some darkness just to shine a light on a case.

"Billy said Mr Speller had some cherry Nuka-colas and he wanted to share one with me." She looked down. "I didn't think mom would mind so I went. He _ _ he said I was pretty again and touched my arm. I didn't feel good but I really wanted a cherry Nuka-cola. He said I smelt good which was funny 'cuz I hadn't washed that morning and mom was angry with me for that." She looked up her eyes full of tears. "I mean that it was funny odd, not funny ha ha."

"When did your mom….?" I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

"Right then. She was pis…. Angry and she shouted at me to leave and called Mr Speller a ' _dis-gus-ting old man_ ' and that ' _once was enough_ '. I ran out and came down here. Next thing I know is that everyone's talking about him getting shot and we all run up the stairs to his room. Mom was behind me and she held me tight whispering that what happened there should be ' _our secret_ '; but that's what **he** said; Right!?"

"Some secrets are worth hidin' kid; an' some aren't. Your mom's right on this one. No one else is to know okay?"

She nodded and I let her return to her Sonia. So I understood why and how. I just needed to tidy things up. Dot th' T's an' cross th' I's so to speak. I went back into the kitchen come washroom come bedroom and asked around. Everyone told me a variation onna theme; they either heard the shot or heard someone else who had heard the shot. As a group they made their way upstairs and yes Sonia was with them bringing up the rear.

I checked the layout of the floor. The main room, the kitchen come everything else including the kitchen sink, held the six shafts leading to the four guests, Weston's room and an open lounge/bar opposite her room close to Spellers and Annie Clarabelle Dawson's rooms. If everyone was turned to the stairs leading to the guests their backs would be to the dumb waiters.

When I had arrived I had become blinded by the ghoul's prejudices. This was a murder and they needed someone capable of murder; someone their obvious equal. In truth it was sheer luck that had created the situation and not intelligent cunning. But the 'guest's' did not see the staff, could not even recall their names. To them the staff were just moving objects no more useful than a Mr Handy robot.

"You know." Sonia asked as she stepped close to me. It wasn't a question.

"You went to protect your daughter from a predator." I looked into her eyes and understood much more. "A predator that had struck before many times."

She looked away and I could barely hear her voice. "He liked little girls. I was only a little older than Danni when he. . ."

I spoke allowing Sonia to compose herself. "You sent her out. He argued. Lunch had just been sent up, that was why you were there, and you grabbed a knife. He pulled out a gun but he was old and leathery. You struggled; he fell. You ran the knife into his hand and the you picked up the gun."

"I was only thinking of what he would do to Danni. It was too late for me but she has her life; even here in hell."

"You took the gun and realising that the corridor was out of the question you used the dumb waiter to lower yourself back into the kitchen where you could follow everyone else upstairs."

"I threw the gun away on my way to Diamond City. I just couldn't believe my luck. She sent me."

I grabbed her shoulders. "Okay doll; here's what we need to do."

I entered the lounge to find all four ghouls there, each sitting or standing as far away from the others as could be; a centrifugal force keeping them apart. Weston bustled over demanding to know why they had been kept waiting. The impertinence of it all; I was a machine, a thing and didn't things just jump to their beat?

I just shrugged my shoulders and said nothing settling instead at the centre of the room. I waited until all four realised that it was better to let me speak than babble on amongst themselves. I resisted the urge to begin by saying ' _we are gathered here today_ ' and instead went straight into my prepared speech.

"You hired me to come here and discover who amongst you killed Thomas Speller. Who this person is and why they perpetrated such a crime. I can tell you that the person who committed this act resided within the hotel." The four began to glance warily at each other suspicion in all their eyes.

"I can also tell you something each and every one of you already knew. That Speller was a man with grotesque tastes and that each and every one of you colluded to allow him continual access to his crimes." Miss Smith loudly proclaimed her innocent but I could see it in every face; the knowledge of the man and his acts over the past two hundred years and more.

"You all allowed him to continue. Fed him in fact with fresh young girls. The staff are very vocal on that. You Mrs Weston encouraged only the youngest of travellers to stay, using Miss Smith and Mr Le Petite even to 'encourage' them to stay. Mr Smith here supplied you with the means to keep your 'staff' in line with the use of nerve-line braclets able to not only track a suspect but create pain greater than most trained soldiers can take. Your staff had little defence against such tactics." Weston and Smith gave me both murderous looks but I continued.

"So is it any surprise that Spellers choices in life became so indicative of his death?"

"The staff!" Weston snarled. "One of them killed him. Which one? Which one of the little brats did this?"

"Are now there is the rub. Yes one member of your staff did indeed finish Speller but which one?"

"You know or you wouldn't be putting us through this pointlessness." Le Petite said sharply.

I smiled and continued. "Yes I know who did it. And I've decided to tell you on only one condition."

"CONDITION! YOU HAVE A CONDITION! Tell us. Tell us now!" Weston screamed her face contorted in rage. I wondered if ghouls could ever become feral if riled too much.

"Take it or leave it. That's my offer."

"Oh for god's sake what is this bloody condition?" The young actress said bitterly.

"Simple. Tell me the name of a member of your staff, with a good description of them – just so you can't cheat and run off any number of names – and I'll give you the name of the person you want."

There was silence.

"A name?" Smith asked curiously.

"With a description." I wanted to smile. "Come now. Who brings you your meals; or cooks for you; or cleans your rooms? You make sure they only use the names from the badges of dead employees so who is who?"

"Candy?" Asked Le Petite. "Or was it Cindy?"

"Anne?" Clarabelle?" Weston said.

"You stupid bitch." Exclaimed Miss Smith. "That's me!"

"Mark. John. Luke. Matthew." Smith stuttered.

"Oh for god's sake why not John, Paul, George and Ringo?" Miss Smith retorted.

I stood and walked away.

"Wait! Where are you going? You have to tell us." Weston cried out.

"If you actually knew your staff, and treated them as staff then I wouldn't have been needed."

"It doesn't matter." Snarled Smith. "We can make them talk when you're gone." He laughed and Le Petite joined in baying like a horse.

"Oh. Didn't I say? I hacked your terminal while you were all waiting here for me. The bracelets are useless. All of your staff have left." I walked to the elevator and waited for it to arrive. Weston came out looking drunk and disorientated, her world turned upside down.

"You don't get a cap. Not one." She said.

"Don't worry. I have _some_ morels." The doors open and I took the car back down to the ground. Tina had left along with the rest of the staff. I had played for time allowing them to leave. Sonia was waiting in the lobby with Danni.

"Mrs Weston gave me some caps for you. She wasn't sure whether you would need paying up front. Here." She went to give me a stash of caps but I declined.

"No. you and Danni, and the rest, need it more than I do. Take it. If you ever get to Diamond City again look me up."

They left to join the others and I strolled over to the Whitehound station to wait for the next coach back to civilisation. I needed a good bath after this despite what it'll do to my transistors.

 _Nick Valentine_


End file.
